Visiting Hours
by Jinx Friday
Summary: Saint Dane visits Courtney in the hospital. He has a Plan, and he will not let anyone ruin it… not even the part of him that yearns to stay by her side.


**Title:** Visiting Hours  
**Author:** Jinx Friday  
**Source Material:** Pendragon, by D.J. MacHale  
**Disclaimer:** I am not D.J. MacHale. Were I D.J. MacHale, the entire series would be from Saint Dane's point of view.  
**Spoilers:** through The Rivers of Zadaa  
**Rating/Warnings:** T for Saint Dane being himself  
**Background:** Takes place after The Rivers of Zadaa. I wrote this on a whim a few years ago, then recently edited it and made it about three times as long.  
**Summary:** Saint Dane visits Courtney in the hospital. He has a Plan, and he will not let anyone ruin it… not even the part of him that yearns to stay by her side.  
**Notes:** Please review! Even flames are appreciated, as they keep me warm and toasty and the scent of burning flesh might draw my dear Saint Dane to come to Second Earth and meet me at last.

It is one day after Courtney's miraculous recovery, and she is sleeping. For a few moments the grief on her face fades; her fierce determinedness becomes innocence as the lines in her skin become smooth. For a few moments, the pain eases and she has a chance to dream. But she's been through too much for dreaming to bring any peace.

He watches closely as her eyelids begin to flicker with nightmares. Her distress doesn't affect him, not emotionally – it's all part of the great game that they play. He knows the outcome, and he knows what her fate will be. Still, he feels a strange urge to reach out and touch her trembling forehead.

No. It mustn't be done.

Courtney wakes up. Her eyes open slowly, and the look in them is haunted and hopeless. Then she sees him. "Spader?" she asks weakly.

"I came as soon as I could," he says gently, sitting down beside her and taking her hand. This form, this character, feels strange – he has never liked Cloral. But Courtney loves the form, and so he allows its expressions and speech patterns to consume him. It's a pity his other identity has been compromised. The blond student who so won over Bobby's precious acolyte. He rather liked that one; he made a mistake by forgetting that it once had a true owner, by putting too much of himself into it. Now he misses it, and emotions are not part of The Plan. "Are you all right?"

"Yes – I –" Courtney stops, trying to push her injured brain into some form of rationalization. "But you can't be here. You're trapped on Eelong."

He smiles, manufacturing worry and doubt to show clearly on his borrowed face. "Actually, I… well, right now it's too much to explain. But hobey, what happened? You look…" _…like an angel, a muse, a warrior, a martyr..._ "…terrible."

She doesn't answer him. Just looks at him, exhausted, wishing she had a few less bruises. Wishing she could get away from this prison. The old Courtney, proud and brave and radiant, is still there somewhere. She may be buried, but she is ready to resurface whenever she is needed. That will be soon.

He leans down and kisses her, so swiftly she doesn't have time to react. This, too, is part of The Plan. He refuses to contemplate his reason for including it. It is simply another emotional manipulation, and if part of him wants to stay there and keep her looking at him like that forever, that part is easily ignored.

"You came for me," she whispers against him, and (_God_) there are tears threatening to spill out over her eyelashes.

He makes a mental revision: that part of him is… _somewhat_… easily ignored.

The next kiss is harsh and deep, and when one of her hands curls weakly around his neck, _all_ of him revels in how easily the manipulation has been done. Perhaps he will stay a moment longer – the flumes will get him where he needs to be regardless, because they, like him, exist outside of the time stream of this world. He has never been part of Second Earth. He will stay, yes, and claim the one part of this world that can entirely be his…

"_Spader,_" she breathes.

And yet… there is _that_. The small problem of her thinking that he is that weak fool from Cloral. It shouldn't matter, not to him and not to The Plan, because she is under his spell and it doesn't make a difference what she knows; still, somehow, it does.

The sound of the Cloral Traveler's name and the thought of The Plan wrench him back to the present. "I should be getting back," he says smoothly, seamlessly, emotionlessly. "You'll see what happens in the journals, I suppose."

In another moment he walks out the door and is gone.

He imagines her eyes following him out, and he waits until he is long out of sight to take on the features of Andy Mitchell and wave at the receptionist. Then, in the same fluid motion, he becomes a raven and flies up to the weathered oak outside Courtney's window. A minute later he sits there as a scarred man, watching her as she rolls over and slowly drifts back into sleep. She will not remember this later. If she does, she will consider it an impossible dream. The memory, the ghost of her desires will deepen the fracture in her relationship with Bobby. This is a good thing. Their perfection is beginning to wear on his nerves.

"You really don't know what's about to happen, do you?" Saint Dane asks quietly, knowing she cannot hear him and uncertain whether he wishes she could. "I nearly killed you. I have saved your life, as well, though you'll never know it or believe it. And now you will be plunged again into battle and near-certain death." He turns away from the windowsill to look briefly into the sun. Everything is silent around him, silent and still. There are places he must go and plans he must fulfill. But first, he returns his gaze to Courtney's sleeping form.

"Yes, I give, and I take away. But I don't think you and your allies will ever realize just how much I give…"

If he stays a second longer, he will change his mind about so many things. She is not worth it. The angel, the muse, the warrior… the martyr, as she will one day be… she is not worth it. He does not reason this out; instead, he decides it, and so it is true.

So he strides back to the flume, pausing a moment in the entrance to take on the appearance of his next victim, and he will not look back again until it is much later and much too late.

…_and just how much I take away._


End file.
